Ida Smith Page Ten Into the starry heavens By harold austin THROUGH the ever-gathering dusk of evening, there was scarcely an audible sound. Only the muffled whisper of voices and an occasional movement in the trench at the edge of the valley gave any indication of human presence in the desolate territory which had once been the fertile fields of a long-absent French farmer. The only indication that two deadlocked armies were here struggling like Roman gladiators for possession of the barren countryside was the presence of endless fences of barbed wire and immense shell holes which scarred the landscape. In the hearts of some American troops who had just ar-rived in the front line trenches, there was a feeling of mixed dread and anticipation. They were this day to receive their first taste of modern warfare. Some viewed the future with apparent misgiving; the majority were eager and willing to "pitch in and drive the Huns into Germany." They stood motionless in their trench, hands tightly clenching rifles with bayonets affixed. Carl's face was pale under his oval helmet. His jaw was strangely set, but his manner gave no indication of excite ment. He had not liked the idea of being responsible for the taking of human life even upon the field of battle, but he had resolved to see the thing through, and from this purpose there was no turning back. Far to his right an officer stood, glancing now and then at his wrist watch. "It's about time for our artillery to start the dirty work," the officer muttered under his breath. Suddenly, as if his words had been heard and understood, a resounding crash of belching cannon began a fierce, pound' ing barrage. The darkening heavens suddenly came to life as the bellowing guns spit out their salvos of destruction and transformed the valley into a bloody workshop. There had been a slight shift among the untrained men at the fiery display of awful force, for they realized that the sound of the guns was heralding the approach of the zero hour. Carl glanced nervously into the earnest eyes of Pat Murphy, a grizzly fun-loving Irish-American, who gave the young soldier a reassuring nod. It was good to have Murphy right next in line, he thought. It sort of made things look a little better. It wouldn't really matter after the troop got started, but then, this waiting Carl's thoughts were interrupted suddenly by Murphy as he bent down and whispered in his ear, "It's about time to go over, lad. Let's go in and give them spiked helmets some good American steel." The captain had his arm up now, and Carl watched him with fixed eyes, every moment expecting it to be lowered to send him on his wild journey into No Man's Land. The covering artillery barrage had increased in volume by now and had coverted the quietude of five minutes ago into wild reverberations and crescendos of artillery and rifle fire. The sky was streaked with wild flashes of yellow and red light. The entire valley had been suddenly transformed into an inferno of destruction. Suddenly, the officer's arm went down. The time had come, and without a moment's hestitation the khaki line surged up and over. Out into the very face of that hot furnace of shot and flame rolled the thin American column. Carl's thoughts were muddled as he went charging he knew not where. He was only conscious that he was pushing, pushing, pushing, on and on. To his right, he heard Murphy swearing and cussing German marksmanship, all the time chuckling to himself. On his left, he heard Smith, a lad of his own age, softly singing "Yankee Doodle" to himself. Carl did not notice until later that the song had stopped abruptly and that Smith lay dead in a blanket of mud far to the rear. Murphy, too, fell a little farther on. Carl stopped a moment beside his inert form. There was a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. The glazed, half open eyes of his friend told Carl that he must have met his end almost instantaneously. The young American soldier was beginning now to sense the maddening feeling of seeing death stalking upon all sides, cruel and unrelenting, as it struck down his comrades and buddies. He raised himself up, a strange forlorn expression on his sunken face. He grabbed his gun and ran on to join the thinning ranks of his other freinds as they ferreted out the stubbornly resisting German soldiery. He was all mixed up now, and he scarcely cared. All he could feel was the throbbing pain in his head and the cold clammy sweat creas' ing down his dirt-strewn face. He stumbled on in this dazed condition for several hundred yards, seeing upon all sides of him men fighting like wild animals to kill one another. He hated the sight of such mad expressions of human hate and scarcely took his own personal safety into consideration. Abruptly there loomed up before Carl's bloodshot eyes the form of another man. He was dressed in the uniform of the German Bavarian regiment. Scarcely knowing why, Carl (Continued on Page 14) Page Eleven